


Smooth, Neat, and Orderly

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Beards (Facial Hair), First Time, Introspection, M/M, Memories, Rituals, Vignette, Young
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:04:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sean has his own ritual to close out a film shoot, to put everything back into a smooth, neat, and orderly form.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smooth, Neat, and Orderly

**Author's Note:**

> Late and slow as per usual, my answer to [](http://mcee.livejournal.com/profile)[**mcee**](http://mcee.livejournal.com/)'s [Default Icon Challenge](http://www.livejournal.com/users/mcee/757349.html) that's been popping up everywhere.
> 
> _*mumble*_ AndthenafterImustgetbacktowritingepicthingyoryouknowsleep _*mumble*_
> 
> Oh, and btw, thanks for the vivid childhood image earlier, Slyspidertoo. A form of it seems to have crept in here on me.

Sean's first beard was a scraggly affair, more like a smudge or a shadow than a real, solid growth of hair, but he was proud, prouder of it than of the baby tooth he knocked out on a doorknob when he was six. He could spit water a good metre or so through the gap he'd made, and that was a _talent._ But the beard, now _that_ was a sign that he was a man. It didn't matter much that his voice had barely dropped and he still couldn't drive. It gave him bragging rights, and that's all that mattered.

He didn't shave it off until a year or so later when those few intrepid hairs grew in with a vengeance, prickling, itching, scraping at his hand when he rubbed his chin in thought, when he covered his mouth to hide a grin. He decided early on, once the bragging rights of childhood dropped away, that he didn't much like beards. It was easier to keep everything smooth, neat, orderly. The floor of his car might be littered with maps and paper and wrappers and scripts, but he himself could be smooth, neat, and orderly.

Sure, the time came when he was directed to grow a beard for that part or this, and he did so happily, only surreptitiously scratching at the hairs between takes. He wasn't going to complain. And he didn't.

But once he was done a job that required a beard, the first thing he'd do was shave it off, watch in the mirror as the character dropped away, as Sean -- smooth, neat, and orderly -- returned.

Boromir required facial hair, of course, because who has time for shaving when there's a war to be fought? A city to protect? And Sean fully intended to see Boromir through and then stand in front of that mirror, smoothly slide the blade across skin, neatly cut the son of the Steward away until the Sheffield bloke was back behind his eyes where he belonged.

He fully intended to do so.

That is, until he met Viggo.

Beards didn't prickle so much under the touch of another callused hand. They didn't scratch when rubbed against another's stomach. Didn't itch. Tickled, maybe.

When shooting wrapped, when everyone scattered to the four winds, Sean found himself in front of that same mirror holding another blade. But he could feel the memory of a rasp of a beard that wasn't his own across the back of his hand, and he knew this little ritual wouldn't make a difference, not this time. Nothing was smooth, neat, orderly anymore. Not even Sean.

So now, just for now he'd let it linger, long enough to remember, long enough so he couldn't forget.


End file.
